Sun-daze
by Purupuss
Summary: First impressions aren't always correct impressions.


Believe it or not, I'm still here and I'm still writing Thunderbirds stories. At least I'm writing one, rather large, Thunderbirds story. But, after a gentle nudge from Untamed Canine, I have brought a single idea that's been floating around to life.

So, thanks to Untamed Canine, Quiller, D.C., Red Hardy, and Beadbird, for helping me bring Sun-daze to life.

Naturally I can't lay claim to the Tracys, but the other characters are mine.

This story has only been posted on fanfiction dot net, and if you are reading it elsewhere, it is a pirated copy. Please do not post Sun-Daze in a C2 without asking my permission first.

Thank you.

FAB

:-) Purupuss

* * *

 **Sun-daze**

It was a hot Sunday.

As I wandered down the uneven footpath with its loose pebbles underfoot, I wondered if this temperature was a common occurrence in this town, or if my new home was welcoming me with a baptism of almost literal fire. My shopping cart, its bag laden with groceries, felt heavy and the handle slippery as my sweat-moistened hand almost lost its grip. I stopped, took my handkerchief out of my pocket, wiped both hands on it, and then, keeping the cloth as a moisture-absorbing barrier, resumed my trek, pulling my heavy load behind me.

I rounded a corner, and almost groaned. Ahead of me was a short incline, leading up to a bridge over a creek made shallow through lack of rain. I'd forgotten about this smallest of hills, and wasn't looking forward to dragging my heavy bag up it in this heat.

Then I saw something that made me even more reluctant to continue my journey.

A gang of boys were loitering at the top of the bridge. There appeared to be about five of them, from barely teenagers to late teens/early twenties, and all were blocking the footpath, pushing and shoving each other, trying to trip each other up, laughing and hollering at the top of their voices. I hadn't seen much in the way of tagging or graffiti in the town, and wondered if what little there was, was due to the group in front of me.

 _Hooligans_ , I thought.

But I was unprepared for what happened next. Horrified, I watched as the four biggest boys, after a single word of command from their leader, picked up the smallest and held him over the creek.

"Put me down!" he yelled.

"You're gonna have to pay," the eldest sneered.

"I can't!" Fair hair flopped about a red face as the youngster squirmed.

"You expect me to?"

"NO."

"Good."

"Put – me – down!"

"Love to." There was that sneer again. "But you have to say the magic word first."

"Scott..."

"That's not it."

"Let me go!"

"That's three words. And talking threes; on the count of three, fellas... One..."

"I didn't mean anything!"

"Two..." his captors chanted.

"Don't!"

"Thr..."

"Please!"

"...ree" There was an aborted movement from the gang, and the biggest boy laughed. The rest of his cronies, mindlessly obedient to his wishes, laughed along with him.

"You said you were hot, Alan," the youngest of his attackers teased, his auburn hair reflecting the heat of the sunlight. "We're just helping you cool off."

The younger boy squirmed in the other's grasp. "Not like this."

It was at that moment that the brown-headed boy saw me staring at them. He said something to his cohorts, and, after a single quiet word from their leader, they all pulled the unfortunate lad back from his precarious position and placed him, feet first, on the ground.

Finally freed from their grasp, he skipped away, unaware of my saving presence. "I'll tell Dad what you did," he taunted, putting as much distance from his attackers and himself as he could. "I'll tell him that you were going to throw me off the bridge."

The taller blond, the leanest of the group, smirked. "You know that he'll only ask why we didn't wait until he was here to help us."

 _Typical_ , I thought. _They clearly get no love at home. They'll have been left to wander the streets, causing mischief, with no one to care for them._

The youngest continued to back away from his tormentors. "All I meant was that I wanted an ice cream."

"Alan..." the biggest warned. "Look out behind you."

"Why?" Alan jeered. "So you can grab me and dump me in the creek?"

"Alan!" This call was more insistent and said in four-part chorus.

"What?" Alan took another step back, nearly standing on my foot.

Taking my own evasive step backwards, I lost my balance as my heel caught in the wheel of my shopping cart. A second balancing step was trapped by my bag and I found myself falling, my landing cushioned to a degree by the softer grocery items.

I heard something crack.

I barely had a moment to realise what had happened to me and that I was splayed across my bag, when I heard a voice. "I'm sorry. Are you all right, Ma'am?"

The words didn't penetrate as realisation dawned that I was trapped. Surrounded by those five hooligans; I was at their mercy.

One crouched down so he was at my eye-level.

It was the ringleader. "Are you hurt, Ma'am?"

I didn't know what to answer. I wondered if they saw my fear and what they'd do when they did.

Another face got into my field of view. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. Are you all right?"

It was Alan and he was nudged away by the elder boy. "Are you hurt?" he repeated.

Slowly, gingerly, I tried to sit up, but something was stopping me. My confused thoughts had me wondering why.

"Let's get you off your cart," the ringleader suggested to me. "Here..." Guiding the auburn-haired boy out of the way, he moved to my side and slipped his arm under mine. "Grab her other arm, John, and lift her just enough so that Virgil can pull it free." He waited long enough for the elder blond to get into position. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"Virg?"

"Ready."

A quick nod from their leader was all that his two subordinates needed to begin their allotted tasks. Trying to help, and mindful that I might need a quick getaway, I put my weight on my legs...

My involuntary gasp of pain was enough to make them stop. "Are you all right?" the eldest asked, neither he, nor his associate on my other side moving a muscle.

"M... My ankle."

"Okay. We'll put you back down. But can you get the cart out first, Virgil?"

"Yes." 'Virgil' was able to pull my shopping trolley clear and I was lowered with care back onto the pebble-strewn ground.

I found myself with an unexpected backrest. My cart was being held upright as a back support.

The ringleader (hadn't 'Alan' called him 'Scott'?) stared at me with a frown of concern. "How badly are you hurt? Right or left ankle?"

I reached down to my right. "I think I've only twisted it."

Once again, 'Alan' was in my field of view. "I'm sorry," he blurted, and it seemed like he meant it. "I didn't see you there."

"Pity you didn't have your ice cream," the auburn-haired youngster at my shoulder told him. "We could use it as an ice pack."

"Have you only twisted it?" 'Scott' checked. "Or do you think it's something worse? We could get help."

I rubbed my aching ankle gently. "I think that's all. It's getting better."

He smiled, and the smile was warm and reassuring. "That's good. I'll have to apologise for my kid brother. Alan can be a bit impulsive sometimes."

"Hey!" Alan complained, and smacked Scott over the arm with a blow that his brother didn't acknowledge. "If you guys hadn't threatened to throw me into the creek, I wouldn't have been running away."

"If you hadn't been pestering us for an ice cream, we wouldn't have been trying to cool you off," 'John' reminded him.

Alan pouted. "That's right. Blame me."

I rubbed my ankle again. It wasn't really hurting any more. "I think I can get up now."

"Are you sure?" Scott checked. "Don't try to until you're ready."

"I'm ready."

"Okay. John, support her on the other side."

"Okay," John echoed, and I felt two pairs of strong arms lift me with care until I was upright.

"Take your time," Scott warned. "Get your balance." He waited until he was convinced that I could stand unaided, before letting go. "Where's your cart?"

'Virgil' was on his knees, examining my shopping trolley while his as yet unnamed auburn-haired friend supported it for him.

"The wheel's come off," the younger boy announced. "It's snapped."

Scott crouched down again. "Can you fix it, Virg?" he asked.

Virgil straightened, holding a wheel in one hand and what appeared to be a bit of tube in the other. "Not here. The axle's sheered."

"At home?"

Virgil nodded. "I think I've got the parts."

"Okay, then this is what we'll do." Scott stood. "You and Gordon carry the trolley. John and I will help Mrs..."

A pair of questioning blue eyes turned towards me. "Holmes," I ventured. "But I don't want to cause any trouble."

Scott chuckled. "You'll only cause trouble if Grandma hears that we didn't help you when it was our fault that you were hurt and your cart was broken." He turned back to the other boys. "John and I will help Mrs Holmes. Alan, you run on ahead and tell Grandma we're coming."

"'Kay." Alan took off at a run.

"And Alan!"

The youngster stopped, spinning around. "What?"

"Don't eat all the ice cream before we get there. Leave some for Mrs Holmes."

Alan treated him to a lopsided grin. "'Kay," he repeated, and resumed his run.

We didn't have far to walk, Virgil and Gordon carrying the cart between them, the former with the wheel jammed into his pocket. Scott, John and I followed behind, the two young men forming a kind of guard of honour; ready to grab me should I show any sign of stumbling and falling. They needn't have worried. My ankle was barely aching.

We turned a corner and followed a road lined with newish houses, until we turned down a driveway and proceeded towards an older homestead that stood back from the street. Behind the house were fields and I assumed that the building that I was approaching belonged to this farm.

Alan and an older lady were standing on the porch, Alan pointing at us as if the sight of her grandson and his friends escorting another lady down their driveway wasn't enough of a hint as to who we were.

'Grandma' hurried forward. "I'm so sorry," she apologised. "I must apologise for my grandsons. Alan tells me that you fell over and twisted your ankle because of them."

I noticed the plural spreading the blame and didn't correct the assumption. Neither did any of Alan's...? I was beginning to wonder if they were all siblings, rather than just friends.

"Alan." 'Grandma' turned to the youngster at her side. "Go and get the basket. We can put the groceries in there while Virgil repairs Mrs Holmes' cart."

Alan dashed back inside, grabbed something from behind the door, and emerged with a large wicker basket which he dropped onto the ground before proceeding to haul everything out of my cart's bag.

"Careful, Alan!" 'Grandma' scolded. "You could break something!"

With a face, he held up his hand as a yellow, gooey liquid dripped from his fingers. "I think _something_ already is."

"Oh!" I put my hand to my chest. "My eggs! I must have broken them when I fell on them."

"Well, never mind that," 'Grandma' soothed. "Henrietta and her friends have given us plenty and you can have some of ours..."

"But..."

But 'Grandma' wasn't listening to any protests. "Has anything else been damaged, Alan?"

Shoving the cereal to one side so he could drop a cabbage onto the bottom of the basket, Alan responded with an unconcerned: "Nope."

"Has the egg got onto anything else?"

He held up a protective bag. "Only this."

"We can supply you with another one." 'Grandma' waved away my additional protests. "How long will it take you to repair Mrs Holmes' cart, Virgil?"

He gave a shrug. "Half an hour?"

"Long enough for a cup of coffee." 'Grandma' indicated her home. "Please, come inside," she insisted, and led the way into the cool of an air-conditioned house.

The first room, an open plan kitchen/dining area that led into a lounge, was neat without being tidy. It showed evidence of being occupied by a multitude of young men, all of whose interests were competing for space. Books, models and trophies cluttered any free nooks and crannies... Plus, one or two of the chairs.

Grandma tutted and swooped on a pile of periodicals that appeared to have a nautical theme. "Gordon! How many times have I told you to put your magazines away? And John!" She pointed at a couple of thick textbooks residing on the sofa. "Take them back to your room. You said you wanted a study for peace and quiet. That's where you should be doing your studying!"

With a guilty expression, the young man picked up two thick, incomprehensible tomes, and placed them on top of an upright piano that was tucked into the corner of the lounge.

His grandma, too busy fussing over me, didn't notice. She swept up a sketchpad and dropped a tableful of coloured pencils into a case. "I don't know how many times I've told Virgil to put these away, and here they still are." She put the drawing implements on top of John's textbooks. "Now!" Obviously pleased that she was finally able to put up a good front, she turned back to me and smiled. "Would you like a cup of coffee? Or something cooler? Or ice cream? It's homemade."

"Can I have some ice cream, Grandma?" Alan asked, his eyes big and puppy-like in what he hoped was an endearing fashion.

"You can wait, young man," she told him. "We have a guest."

I hesitated. Normally, in such situations, I would have requested coffee. But the day was hot, and I was hot...

"You won't forgive yourself if you don't have some ice cream," Scott told me. "Grandma's famous for it. She wins prizes for it at the county fair every year. That and her apple pie."

"Ambrosia of the Gods," John agreed. "If music hath power to soothe the savage breast," he ignored Alan and Gordon's giggles at the word, "then Grandma's apple pie and ice cream would turn the savage into marshmallow."

"Oh, John." 'Grandma' scolded, but she appeared pleased by the compliment. "Now, don't force Mrs Holmes into eating anything she doesn't want. She may have allergies."

"I don't," I assured her.

"Good. But I'm afraid that I don't have any apple pie," 'Grandma' admitted, retreating to the kitchen area. "But you are welcome to ice cream. It's chocolate orange," she added.

Four young men sat up in hopeful anticipation.

"If it's not too much trouble..." I began.

"No trouble at all." With a broad smile, 'Grandma' began pulling bowls out of a cupboard.

"Can I help?" I asked.

"Of course not." A large container was produced from out of the refrigerator. "You can rest your foot. I've got four strapping young men to help me. Speaking of which," she pointed the bowl of a spoon at Scott. "You can get a table for Mrs Holmes to eat off."

"Yes, Grandma." And with no question, nor word of complaint, Scott was on his feet and hurrying into a neighbouring room.

The spoon moved. "Alan: Go and see if Virgil wants his ice cream now, or if he'd rather finish fixing Mrs Holmes' cart first."

"Yes, Grandma."

"John: Ask your father if he's ready for a break."

"Yes, Grandma."

Scott arrived back with a small tray, which he locked onto the arm of my chair. He swung it around so it was level before me, and placed a serviette and a spoon upon its flat surface.

"Gordon: Come and get Mrs Holmes' bowl."

With the reverence that I would have associated with the placing of a coronet on the newly-crowned head of some foreign land, Gordon placed a generous-sized bowl of ice cream, topped with nuts and other embellishments, onto my tray.

It looked refreshing and cool with great hunks of milky chocolate contrasting with the creamy orange ice cream. One sniff and the unmistakable aroma of orange filled my nostrils. "I must say that if it tastes as good as it looks and smells, it should be divine." But I held off dipping my spoon into the dessert to await the return of Alan and John, and the possible arrival of Virgil and the as yet unseen father.

"Now don't wait," I was told, as 'Grandma' scooped more ice cream into a variety of dishes. "It'll melt if we wait for the boys."

There didn't seem to be much chance of that as I heard two sets of footsteps running outside and two teenagers raced inside.

"What flavour is it?" Virgil asked his grandmother, his eyes beaming.

"Chocolate orange. Let me see your hands first."

Scott chuckled. "Grandma's ice cream's about the only thing that'll drag Virgil away from fixing something," he confided to me.

"Did I hear there was ice cream on offer, Mother?"

This was a new voice; deep and manly, and, smiling 'Grandma' turned to face its source. Then her expression turned to one of horror. "Jeff! Look at the state of you!"

I assumed that 'Jeff' must have been a farmhand as he was wearing tatty overalls over a holey t-shirt and was covered, literally, from head to foot in grease. Seeming surprised, he glanced down at his apparel. "What?"

"You're filthy!"

"I'm fixing the tractor. What would you expect?"

"We have a visitor. I expect you to be presentable when you meet them."

"We do?" Jeff's keen blue eyes scanned the room and rested on me. "My apologies," he admitted. "John didn't say that we had company."

"I did!" John said, affronted. "But once you heard the words 'Grandma's ice cream', you didn't hear anything else."

"You're probably right." Jeff ruffled his son's hair affectionately.

John backed away from his father's greasy hand and ran his fingers through his blond locks, hunting out any black, oily residue. He forgot his search when his grandmother handed him a full bowl and a spoon.

"Mrs Holmes:" She turned back to me. "This reprobate is my son Jeff. Jeff: This is Mrs Holmes. She's broken her shopping cart and Virgil's repairing it for her."

"He is?" Jeff's eyes twinkled at his son and ruffled his hair. "Looks to me like he's enjoying your ice cream."

Looking as content as the proverbial cat, Virgil smiled up from his half-finished bowl of dessert. "I'm waiting for the 'locknut' to cure," he told him.

"Good." Jeff caught sight of another son, who was sitting on the floor slurping up his ice cream out of a bowl decorated with a white cartoon bear. "Any sign any messages yet, Gordon?"

The auburn-haired boy looked disappointed as he glanced at a noticeboard holding a few scraps of paper. "No. Maybe they don't want me."

"Or maybe someone intercepted it before you did?" Jeff chuckled, and reached through his overalls into the pocket beneath. "This arrived a short time ago."

"It did?" Gordon was practically on his knees, begging his father to give him the news. "What does it say?"

"That they would like the privilege of you attending the camp at the end of term." Jeff held out the grease-stained page, and his son almost snatched it from him.

"That's great news, Gordo," Scott congratulated him, and his congratulations were echoed by the rest of the family. I also congratulated Gordon, although I had no idea of the magnitude of the prize.

Gordon was devouring every word of the letter. Then he looked back at his father. "Can I go?"

Jeff ruffled his hair. "Of course, you can. You've worked hard for it. You deserve it."

"Thank you!" And I was delighted to see the teenager wrap his father in a huge hug.

"You'll be swimming in grease," Jeff teased. After returning the hug, he eyed the full bowls. "Any of that for me?"

"Yes..." 'Grandma' smiled sweetly at him. "Once you've had a wash."

"Okay, okay," Jeff held up his grubby hands. "I'm on my way."

Grandma settled in what was clearly her chair and tucked into a bowl of her own delicacy. "How long will it take for the 'locknut' to cure, Virgil?"

Her grandson considered the question. "Long enough for more ice cream?" he asked hopefully.

I laughed and Mrs Tracy chuckled. "Once a day's enough," she told him. "It's a treat, not a meal."

Virgil contented himself by scraping out every last remnant of the treat in his bowl, and by the sounds coming from all around me, his brothers were doing the same.

It took all of my self-control to not follow their example. "That was delicious."

"Thank you." 'Grandma' turned in her seat when her son entered the room. "Let's see your hands, Jeff."

He hadn't changed his clothes, but his hands were gleaming and I realised that they didn't appear to be as work-worn as I might have expected from a manual labourer. "I don't remember my flight sergeant being this picky," he stated; holding his hands out as his son had earlier – palms and then backs – for her approval.

"Your flight sergeant didn't have to clean up after you." 'Grandma' gave a satisfied nod. "Yours is in the fridge."

"Thank you, Mother." But Jeff didn't head to the kitchen area. Instead he opened a small trunk next to the sole remaining comfortable chair, removed a huge towel, and spread it over the chair to cover the seat and the back. Only then did he go to the fridge and get his ice cream.

Having settled into his chair and after two mouthfuls of his treat, he looked at me. "How did you break your cart?"

Five pairs of eyes turned to me and I could almost hear one of them begging me not to give the full story. "I tripped over the wheel and fell on top of it," I admitted.

He frowned. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"I twisted my ankle a little bit, but it's all right now. Your sons picked me up and insisted that I come back here until Virgil was able to repair the axle."

At the reminder, Virgil took his bowl out to the kitchen, rinsed it out, and placed it into the dishwasher. He disappeared back out the way he'd come to complete his work.

"Being new in town," I continued, secretly wondering how good a repair a young teenager could do, "I'm grateful for his assistance. I wouldn't know where I could get it fixed."

As if he'd heard me voice my unspoken concerns, Jeff sought to reassure me. "Virgil will do a good job. He has a knack for repairing things." He took another spoonful of ice cream.

"He takes after his father," 'Grandma' agreed.

"It's about the only thing he has inherited from me."

There was a moment's disquieting silence, where even Jeff's sons stopped their inspections of their bowls in their hopeful quest for a final molecule of ice cream. It made me glad that I hadn't voiced the question that had been nagging me. Where was the boys' mother?

As if he were keen to change the subject, Jeff looked back over at me. "How far do you have to walk home?"

"I live on Thompson Street."

"That's miles away in this heat. I'll run you home."

"I don't want to put you out!"

"I can take you," Scott offered.

His grandmother looked at him. "Weren't you going to collect Ed Towler?"

"Oh..." Scott looked as if he'd only just remembered. He checked his watch. "He'll be ready to leave soon. I should get going."

"Are you taking your bike to the airport?" his grandmother asked.

"Of course."

"Then be careful."

Scott gave a confident grin. "Always." He stood. "Thanks for the ice cream, Grandma. I'll be back for seconds later."

"Oh. You!" She made a playful swipe at him as he walked past.

Gordon scrambled to his feet. "I'll take your plate, Dad."

Jeff smiled up at him. "Thanks, Son." He stood, stretched, gathered the towel off his chair and placed it into the trunk.

"Dad..." Alan pulled at his sleeve. "They were going to throw me into the creek."

"Were they?" Jeff responded. "Which one?"

"All of them."

"I meant which creek."

"Oh... Karaka."

"Really...?" Jeff fixed his other sons with a stern gaze. "Why didn't you wait until I was there, so I could help you?" I smothered a chuckle as he ruffled his youngest's hair, Alan gazing up at him with a smile that said that he recognised the joke for what it was.

John laughed. "I told you he'd say that, Kiddo." He reached out and attempted to also ruffle his youngest brother's hair.

Alan danced away out of reach. Clearly having his father upset his locks was acceptable. Having an elder brother do it; wasn't.

Doing up the zip of his of his fiery red leather jacket and with an equally red motorcycle helmet under his arm, Scott returned to the room. "See you guys later."

"Be careful," he grandmother reiterated.

"And give Ed our best," Jeff added. "He must be worried about Charlie. I know they are close."

"He is," Scott confirmed. "That's why I offered to do this."

"You're a good friend to Ed, Scott." Jeff made an aborted movement, as if his eldest was going to be the next recipient of the affectionate hair ruffle and he'd decided against it. I saw a fleeting expression of disappointment cross the father's face and wondered if the ban was self-imposed due to the young man's age, or if his son had put his foot down and said he was too old for such familiarity.

Scott shrugged. "I have the time and I have the resources, so why not? Besides, I'm only following your example." With a huge grin, he ruffled his father's dark hair himself, then he screwed up his face in a grimace as he examined his fingers. "Grease. I'll have to wash my hands before I can put my gloves on now."

Jeff chuckled, his face alight with pleasure. "Off you go, Son. And drive carefully."

"I will. While there's still some of Grandma's ice cream left, I aim to live to enjoy it." Scott strode out of the room.

A short time later we all heard the roar of a motorcycle as it motored down the driveway.

Standing at the window, holding the curtain clear as she watched him depart, Grandma shook her head. "I hope he's careful on that thing."

"You know Scott," her son reminded her. "He's always careful."

I didn't know Jeff well enough, but I thought I could hear a parental concern that belied his reassuring words.

Virgil entered the house, carrying the cart in his arms. "Scott's gone," he announced.

"We know," his grandmother informed him. "We heard him."

"I've finished fixing the trolley." Virgil held the cart out for his father's approval.

As Jeff spun first one wheel and then the next, from my vantage point they appeared to move easily and with little friction. Then, grasping each wheel he attempted to wobble it on the axle. Both wheels remained steadfast and upright. "Are these the original wheels?"

"Nope. They're a couple of spares we had off one of Alan's old go-karts. The old ones were cheap plastic and likely to break under load. These are stronger."

Jeff gave an approving nod. "You've done a good job, Virgil."

His son smiled.

"You must let me pay him for his work," I insisted, reaching for my handbag.

I was stopped. "That's not necessary," Jeff told me. "Virgil enjoys tinkering, don't you, Son?"

Virgil gave a serious nod, and started taking my groceries from out of the wicker basket and transferring them into my newly restored shopping cart.

"But I owe you for the time you spent working on it. And the new wheels..."

"The wheels were old ones," Virgil told me. "They were just sitting there doing nothing."

It still didn't feel right. "There must be something I can do to repay you, to repay all of you for your kindness."

"What goes around, comes around," Jeff quoted. "Someday someone, maybe even one us, will need your help, and you'll be able to give it to them. Maybe even you'll carry something of importance in that cart of yours." To stave off further argument, he turned to his youngest son. "It's time we got Mrs Holmes home, would you like to get the car out for me, Alan?"

The youngster's face lit up at the, to me, unexpected request.

"But you're not to go past the post," his father warned. "You know the rules."

With a: "Sure, Dad," Alan ran from the room.

John grinned. "He'll be back in five seconds," he informed me, and looked at his watch. "Four..."

Without knowing why, I found myself counting down with him. From their nodding heads, it appeared that his family were doing the same.

"... Two... One..."

"Dad?" Alan raced back into the room. "Which car?"

"Which do you think, Alan?" Jeff replied in a patient voice. "It's got to be comfortable for Mrs Holmes to sit in, and big enough to hold her bag upright."

"Oh." Alan thought for the briefest of seconds. "Gotcha." He ran out again.

"Go with him, John," Jeff advised, "and make sure he doesn't go beyond the post." He turned back to me. "Alan's the best driver of all of us, but I wouldn't tell him that. He's still too young to realise that he's not bullet-proof, and I don't want him thinking that he can take risks and get away with it."

I nodded my agreement.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll go and get changed." Jeff grinned at me. "You don't want your chauffeur to disgrace you in front of the neighbours." He hustled out of the room.

"There..." 'Grandma' had been busying herself in the kitchen. "There're half a dozen eggs and..." She placed the eggs on top of another container into my bag. "...some ice cream."

I was mortified. "I can't take that!"

"Of course, you can. I can always make more."

I considered arguing, but had a feeling that I would be wasting my time. "Thank you."

John re-entered the room, shaking his head. "I don't know how the kid does it. He drove up to the post and not a millimetre past it. I swear that if the two were on the same alignment, you wouldn't even be able to slide a piece of paper between them."

Alan ran back into the room. "Dunnit, Grandma."

"Thank you, Alan."

It was Jeff's turn to reappear. Now he was dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a spotless, although casual, shirt. He'd also washed his face and attempted to comb the grease out of his hair. "Everyone ready? Do you want to come, Gordon? We could stop off at the pool and you could tell everyone your news."

"Yes, please!"

"Can I come too, Dad?" Alan asked, eager to not be left behind.

"Of course, you can. Only remember you're not the only ones in the car. Anyone else want to come?"

John groaned. "I've got to study."

Jeff gave a nod of approval. "Virgil?"

"I could keep working on the tractor for you?"

"Thanks, Son." As Jeff lifted the laden shopping cart and carried it towards the door in his two strong arms, I felt envious at the ease with which he'd picked it up. I'd barely been able to wheel it when it was full, let alone lift it off the ground.

The car was large enough to hold two adults and five growing boys in comfort and, I was surprised to see when the door was opened for me, a degree of luxury.

Jeff strapped the cart upright, so it couldn't fall over and then held out his hand so he could assist me up into the passenger's seat. After the heat of the air outside, the air conditioning was cool and refreshing.

Jeff climbed behind the driver's wheel and then looked into the mirror. "Everyone buckled up?"

There was a chorus of: "Yes, Dad," from the back seat.

"Just a minute!" It was 'Grandma', and Jeff pushed the button that opened a window for her. She was holding another container, which she placed into Gordon's hands. "Will you give this to Miss Isdale for me, Boys?"

There was another chorus, this time chiming: "Yes, Grandma."

"Thank you." Shutting the door, she took a step back and waved. "See you soon."

"Bye," I called back. "Thank you."

Jeff engaged the car into gear and we rolled off down the driveway. I commented on the smoothness and quietness of the journey.

He caressed the steering wheel. "One of the reasons why I chose her. It's as close to flying as I could get without leaving the road. And she's big enough to fit five rug-rats in the back." He grinned into the mirror at his two boys. "Thompson Road, you said? Which number?"

"Fifty-three."

"Oh, the old Jackson place next to Miss Isdale's? I know it."

Above the almost soundless engine and the low-level road noise, I could hear a faint drone.

"There's Scott!" Alan, his nose pressed against the window, pointed skywards. Both boys waved, Gordon leaning over his brother.

I looked out in the direction they were waving and saw a small, sleek aeroplane. It changed course towards us, waggled its wings, and then reverted back on its original path.

"Ed Towler's an old school friend of his," Jeff explained. "He's working at Wellington's and they're short staffed, which is why he couldn't get the time out to visit his nephew. Charlie's developed a chronic illness, and he's been kept in Sparks Ridge Children's Hospital. His family's staying with him in hospital-provided accommodation. Ed's leant them his car, so Charlie's father can travel between work and the hospital, and his mother can get around Sparks Ridge, which means that Ed's lost his main means of transport. The bus service doesn't leave here until midday, and doesn't arrive in Sparks Ridge until 5.00pm, so, if he were to use that service, he'd lose both days of his weekend travelling and barely have the time to visit Charlie. By Scott flying him there and bringing him home again, he can spend all day Saturday and most of Sunday visiting."

"Scott's a pilot?" I guessed.

"He's on leave from the Air Force."

"That's good of him, to be helping out a friend when he could be enjoying time with his family." I noticed that our surroundings were becoming more familiar.

Jeff shrugged. "What goes around, comes around. The Towlers have helped us out in the past... Here we go. Number fifty-three." He turned into my driveway, and was out of the car almost before he'd switched off the engine. Opening my door, he held out his hand to assist me again. "M'Lady," he said, grinning.

There was a twin bellow of "Miss Isdale", from the back seat of the car and Jeff cringed. "Boys," he admonished. "She knows who she is." He treated me to a wry smile, as he helped me down out of the vehicle. "Sorry about that."

But his sons were already out of the car and running towards my neighbour, who'd been tending her garden; Gordon carrying the container that his grandma had given them.

"Grandma said that this was for you," Alan puffed.

Miss Isdale accepted the container with a pleased thank you. "How are you both?" she asked as Jeff carried my shopping to my door. Once again, I was in awe of his strength as he held it at waist height and allowed me to withdraw the ice cream and put it into the freezer.

"Are you sure I can't repay you in some way?" I checked, following him back outside.

"No, you can't," he chuckled. "My mother will have my hide if I accept anything from you."

"Well. Thank you."

"It was my pleasure... Boys! Time to go! Stop pestering Miss Isdale!"

"I was telling her about my camp," Gordon explained, as he scrambled back into the car.

"That's wonderful news, Jeff," my neighbour enthused. "You must be so proud of him."

"As proud as I am of all of them," he admitted, and pretended to doff his cap. "Good afternoon, Ladies." He slid back behind the steering wheel.

I waved as the car pulled out of the driveway, and then wandered over to my neighbour. "Hello."

I was astonished to realise that Miss Isdale was almost smirking. "You do move in exalted circles, don't you?"

I stared at her. "I do what?"

"Don't you know who that was?"

"No. I never found out their last name."

"That was the Tracys."

"Oh." The name meant nothing to me. "They seem to be a nice family."

"They are." Miss Isdale was still smirking. "You still don't know who that was driving the car?"

"He was working on the tractor, so I assumed he was a farmhand or something."

"Farmhand?" Miss Isdale let forth with a peal of laughter. "That's Jeff Tracy!"

I frowned. Something about that name was ringing a bell in the back of my mind. "Who?"

"Jeff Tracy! He's only one of the richest men in the state. If not the country!"

I remembered the greasy figure that I'd first met and his acquiescence towards his mother. "But... But... He was mending the tractor! If he's that rich, why hasn't he paid someone to do it?"

"He likes working with his hands... Come on." Miss Isdale indicated her newly acquired container. "If this is what I think it is, I'll want to get it into the deep freeze as soon as possible. Come in and I'll make you a cup of coffee and explain."

Soon I found myself in another comfortable home enjoying the hospitality of my neighbour. I told her how I'd met the Tracys. "When I first saw them, I thought they were the local hooligans."

"No, just free-spirited boys enjoying being together during Scott's leave from the Air Force and before John leaves for Harvard."

"Harvard!?"

"Yes. You mark my word. One day you'll see those boys mentioned in the media, and it won't be for hooliganism." Beginning her 'potted history' of her friends' lives, Miss Isdale told me about Jeff Tracy's days in the Air Force. "That was how he became an astronaut."

The Tracys seemed to be treating me to surprise after surprise. "He did what?"

"He went to the moon and did some work on the base there. There's every chance that he would still be an astronaut if it hadn't been for the tragedy."

"Tragedy?"

"His wife and father were killed in an accident." Glossing over most of the details, Miss Isdale gave out enough information for me to know that it had been a trying time for the Tracys. "If it hadn't been for people like the Towlers and, even if I do say so myself, me, that family wouldn't have survived. Jeff Tracy was a mess after he lost his wife. It was her death and the knowledge that he had five boys to care for that forced him to leave the Air Force and the astronaut programme."

"He clearly loves his boys."

"He'd do anything for them. Nothing gives him more pleasure than to see them happy."

"Gordon was happy when he found out he was allowed to go to camp."

"Did they tell you what the camp was for?"

"No."

"I'm not surprised. Jeff may be proud of his sons, but he's not boastful. They're all bright, talented kids and he doesn't want them getting big heads. It was his mother who told me that Gordon had applied to attend a training camp for the state squad."

"Training? Training for what?"

"Swimming. That boy's going to go a long way, maybe even all the way to the Olympics. This is the first step." Miss Isdale gave an indulgent smile. "That's if he can stop himself from colouring the water orange, or sewing the coach's swimming trunks shut." She pursed her lips together. "I wouldn't put it past him to put one of those exploding snakes in that container, which is why I opened it at arm's length. He's a terror, that young man, but there's nothing malicious in him. He's forever playing practical jokes for a laugh, especially against his brothers, but he'd never hurt anyone."

I remembered this morning's events. "I think it may have been Gordon who suggested dangling Alan over the creek."

"It could have been. Or it could have been Scott's idea. He's their leader. They'd follow him to the ends of the Earth."

"Mr Tracy told me that Scott was flying Ed Towler to see his nephew in hospital. I presume that's the same family that you mentioned before? He said something about..." I frowned in thought. "...going around...?"

"What goes around, comes around?" Miss Isdale nodded. "That would be right. The family are well aware of all those that helped them in their hour of need, and we all know that if we ever need help, they'll be the first ones offering to do whatever they can as repayment. It's their way of saying thank you. Even if it's just by giving one of us a container of homemade ice cream on a hot summer's day. Or it could be by paying for a new gymnasium for the local elementary school that the boys attended."

"If he had to leave his job to care for his sons, how did he make his money?"

"He started out in civil engineering. They sub-divided the farm along the roadside into housing to raise capital for his first venture, and since then he's never looked back."

-F-A-B-

Later that evening, after my dessert of chocolate orange ice cream, that was so delicious that I only just managed to stop myself from licking the bowl, I sat back and considered everything I'd seen, thought, and heard today.

I'd learnt a lesson. First impressions could be incorrect.

I reflected on the Tracy family. They'd never met me before, had done no real harm to me, and yet had done all they could for me. The only expectation that they had was that if I ever found myself in their situation, that I'd step up and help someone else.

I remembered the strong, masculine voice: "What goes around, comes around." A phrase that could have so many meanings: negative and positive. In their eyes, it was a positive mantra and, inspired by their example, I resolved that it would be an equally positive motto in my life.

Or, I giggled, as licked the inside circumference of the bowl free of the last of that heavenly ice cream and imagined its chocolaty-orange goodness heading straight for my hips; my motto could be: What goes around, becomes round.

 _The end._


End file.
